


love always wakes the dragon (and suddenly, flames everywhere)

by knifelesbian



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Awkward reunions, Healing, Isaac Lahey is a Pretentious Bastard, M/M, Minor Character Death, Misunderstandings, Pining, Ten Years Later, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Veterinarian Scott McCall, Yearning, mildly famous mystery author Isaac Lahey, technically I should put 'au' but is it? is it really?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:41:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24877855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knifelesbian/pseuds/knifelesbian
Summary: It's been ten years since Isaac left Beacon Hills, wracked by grief and feelings for a boy he could never have. After the death of a friend, he returns, faced with the tumultuous mix of mourning and unfortunate attraction to Scott McCall all over again. The more things change, the more they stay the same-- that is, until it starts to seem like Scott might return his feelings.
Relationships: Isaac Lahey/Scott McCall, Lydia Martin/Stiles Stilinski (background)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter 1

_ “Alice,” Lianna starts, voice tinny over the phone, “Do you think you might ever return home?” _

_ “No,” Alice replies immediately. “Never. It’s not that I don’t want to see you, but-” _

_ “I understand. Too many memories, huh?” _

  * _**Alice Silver & the Case of the Haunted Hotel; by Isaac A. Lahey.**_



**=====** __

_ Derek is dead. _

The text is from Argent; the only notification on Isaac’s phone when he wakes up that morning, groggy and still half asleep. He blinks, hard, waking up fully as he rereads the message, sure that there’s been a mistake. Derek can’t be-- there’s no way he’s-- 

_ Derek is dead.  _

Isaac swallows, feeling as though he is going to puke. With shaking fingers, he types out a response. 

**_You better be fucking with me._ **

His phone dings not five seconds later.

_ Do you really think I would do that? _

**_No. But I still had to ask._ **

He sits up in bed, pressing the  _ call  _ button before shakily bringing the phone to his ear. As soon as Argent picks up, he says, “Tell me it’s a lie. Tell me it’s a lie, Argent, and that you’re just-- you’re just really dedicated to this sick joke you’ve got going on. He-- he  _ can’t _ be--“

_ “He is. I’m-- I’m sorry to say it, but he is. There was-- there was a house fire, near the loft. A little girl was stuck inside, and he-- he--“ _

Isaac swallows, waiting for Argent to regain his composure and trying desperately not to go off the rails himself. In a quiet voice, he asks, “He went in to save her, didn’t he?”

A pause.  _ “...Yes. She made it out, thankfully, but… well. There was nothing we could do, Isaac.” _

Isaac bites down so hard on his lip that he tastes blood. This isn’t  _ fair,  _ Derek can’t be  _ dead,  _ not when Isaac hasn’t seen him in over a year, not when he hadn’t even turned 40 yet, not--  _ “Isaac?” _

He clears his throat. “Here. Sorry. It’s just-- what a sick fucking way to go, huh? His whole family gets burnt alive, and then him, too? It’s not-- it’s not right.”

Argent lets out a shaky breath.  _ “No. No, I suppose it isn’t.” _

There’s a sound on the other line, like a stifled sob, and Isaac immediately feels terrible. Derek was, like, Argent’s  _ only  _ friend, he must sound like such an asshole right now. “Oh, fuck, I’m so sorry--“

_ “Don’t be. You have… nothing to apologize for.” _

Isaac pauses, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. After a moment, he asks, “When’s the funeral?”

_ “Wednesday.”  _ Oh, good, that will give him enough time to get his affairs in order.  _ “But, Isaac, you don’t have to--“ _

“Argent, how long have you known me?”

_ “...Ten years.” _

“And in that time, when have I ever been deterred from doing something I had already decided I would do?”

_ “...Well, never. But, Isaac, like I’ve just said, it’s been  _ ten  _ years. Ten years since you’ve returned to Beacon Hills. Are you sure about this?” _

He heaves a sigh, eyes darting around the bedroom, catching on all the little marks of his life here in Paris. The typewriter on the desk, waiting anxiously for him to get started on his new Alice Silver novel, the pictures taped to the mirror from book signing over the years, art pieces he’s painstakingly collected hung up like posters. Can he really leave it all behind?

“...I’ll see you on Monday, Argent.”

**§§§§**

Scott really can’t believe that this is happening. Derek can’t be  _ dead,  _ he’s, well, he’s  _ Derek. _ Derek, who survived a fight with an Alpha Pack, Derek, who got impaled with a rusty iron pole and still lived, Derek, who literally  _ died and came back to life--  _ he’s not allowed to be dead for good. It’s not  _ fair. _

“Neither is life,” Deaton tells him when he broaches the topic with him (and by ‘broaches the topic’ he absolutely does mean breaking down crying in the middle of paperwork, thank you). “Neither is anything else. Derek knew that, Scott. He knew that the moment he ran into that burning building. For better or for worse, he made a choice.”

Scott scoffs, wiping at his eyes. “Not a very good one.”

Deaton hums cryptically, then says, “I’m sure that little girl’s family feels quite differently.”

“I… well… crap, why do you always have to be right?” It’s almost annoying, honestly. Twelve years working for Deaton and he’s never once been wrong. 

Deaton gives him a small smile, warm and comforting. “Someone has to be the smart one around here, don’t they?”

Scott wrinkles his nose at him, replying, “Not a very nice thing to say to someone with a doctorate, y’know.” 

Deaton ruffles his hair, dad-like in the way he’s always been with Scott. When he graduated with his degree in veterinary medicine, there was no question about where he’d be working. He’d gotten lots of offers, but working with Deaton as a licensed vet had been Scott’s dream since high school; he knew where he’d be going. 

“Why don’t you head home early today, hm?” Scott begins to rebuke the offer, but Deaton waves him off. “No, really. I can handle the rest of this. Take the night off, go do something with Danny to cheer you up. Or Stiles, even, but I suspect Mr. Martin may be a bit preoccupied…”

Scott nods. “Yeah, this…this hit him hard. When I stopped by earlier this morning Lydia told me he couldn’t even get out of bed.”

“I suspect that little crush he had in his teens might not be mixing well with his grief,” Deaton says, not unkindly. “Some time to himself might do him some good.”

He lets out a small laugh without meaning to. “‘Little’ crush? Good one. But yeah-- yeah, I think you’re right. Like always.”

His boss chuckles, patting him on the shoulder. “Yes, quite.”

**———**

The plane ride is bumpy and uncomfortable. Isaac tries to work on the outline for the next Alice Silver novel, but even murdered Zamboni drivers and missing little girls aren’t enough to distract him.  _ Alice Silver & the Case of the Ice Pick Killer _ will have to wait a while longer. His editor will understand, surely, and if he doesn’t, well, Isaac can’t say he cares very much. He and Jean-Luc have been stuck together since the very first Alice Silver novel was published--  _ Alice Silver & the Case of the Broken Foxtail--  _ and in the eight books since then, neither of them has ever even considered leaving the other. Isaac makes Jean-Luc too much money for that to ever happen; considering how quickly his books became  _ the  _ mystery series that everyone and their mother has read. 

He’s still a little freaked out by it, if he’s honest. One day, he’s typing up a story for his creative writing class because his professor assigned some bullshit about  _ reinventing your trauma, _ and the next he’s a best-selling author with articles about him titled with stuff like,  _ Why Alice Silver Is This Year’s Coolest Heroine  _ or  _ How Isaac A. Lahey Brought Back The Classic Mystery Novel. _ It’s crazy, and insane, and even after all this time he’s still not used to the attention. He tries not to think about the fact that people know him, now (or at least think they do); that he does tours and gets invited to conferences and receives letters from people begging him to turn his books into movies (which he will never, ever do, by the way). If he’s really, truly honest, the spotlight makes his stomach churn. He doesn’t like when people think they know who he is- Isaac has never been known by anyone in his whole life, except maybe Scott, and he screwed that up all to hell so perhaps he doesn’t count. 

By the time he’s done feeling sorry for himself, they’ve landed, and Isaac disembarks certain of three things, and three things only:

  1. He’s never getting on a plane ever again.
  2. His cat, Fridge _(don’t_ ask), is going to claw his eyes out for putting her through this.
  3. He is in desperate need of a cigarette, and of as much alcohol as his stupid werewolf body can consume without his liver shutting down.



Surprisingly, despite the werewolf rules that claim the contrary, getting drunk post-bite isn’t impossible. Difficult, sure, but not impossible. He met a few French werewolves in university who had figured it out, because of course that’s something only the French would know. 

He finds himself postponing this need for alcohol, though, mostly because his need to unpack outweighs it. Argent picks him up at the airport, and after sharing a hug and having a small heart-to-heart, Isaac is all but forced to begin setting up his house. He’d had his things express-shipped, but hadn’t really planned to deal with them until after the funeral. Argent finds this abhorrent, and clearly itching for something to do, insists upon helping him unpack. So here they are, two days before the funeral, dabbling in interior fucking decorating. 

“I feel like I’ve been thrust into an HGTV program,” Isaac mentions offhandedly as he hangs up an art piece. The house he’s renting on the edge of town came with its own furniture, which he’s grateful for-- sure, he’ll be staying for a few months, but there was no need for him to bring  _ everything.  _ The apartment back in Paris is being leased out to a visiting elderly couple while he’s gone, and the rest of his belongings have been packed away into a storage unit. 

Argent chuckles lightly. “You sound quite aristocratic, Isaac. France has treated you well.”

Isaac harrumphs in response, not really knowing what to say to that. It’s true that France allowed him to flourish, mature into the man he is today. But it was lonely, too-- isolating. He was dropped into an unfamiliar environment, and when Argent went back to Beacon Hills without him, he didn’t really know how to handle it. Argent had been-- and still is-- like a father to him (even paying for his education, which he will never stop thanking him for) so his departure hit hard. France, in general, hit hard-- in a city like Paris, everyone you meet is two seconds from slapping you or kissing you. Eventually, Isaac found a way to fit, there-- but not in a way that ever felt right. France was macarons and coffee that was dark as sin itself, whereas Isaac has always been homemade chocolate chip cookies and a glass of warm milk. He’s gotten pretty good at hiding that part of him, though. 

“Isaac? Did I lose you?”

He almost wants to laugh at the question. He nearly says,  _ I’ve been asking myself the same thing,  _ but he changes his mind at the last second, shaking his head a little. “I-- no. Sorry. I was just thinking, I guess.”

“About?”

“Lots of things?” Argent shoots him a look, like,  _ really?  _ “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’m-- I’m fine, really.” He takes a breath, trying not to get worked up. “I am-- I mean, I’ve gotten a lot better at dealing with my emotions, and I’ve learned how to-- to compartmentalize, or whatever, so--“

Argent steps towards him, wrapping him in a tight hug. As he hugs back, Isaac is reminded of all those years ago when Allison was taken from them-- grief really does bring people together, it seems.

“It’s going to be okay, Isaac. I promise.”

He sighs, squeezing tightly before stepping back. Wiping his eyes, he says, “Um, I think I’m gonna go out later. Get a drink, or whatever. Do you wanna come?” 

Argent pauses, then shakes his head. He reaches up to squeeze Isaac’s shoulder, telling him, “No, you go out on your own. Have fun without some old man skulking behind you.”

_ But I want you there,  _ Isaac doesn’t say. He wants to, he wants to so badly. Drinking alone is pitiful, and he’d love some company-- he can’t tell Argent that, though. It’s cowardice, maybe, but the way he sees it, it’s all in the name of self-protection.

The thing with him and Argent is that whatever they have, this weird, father-son relationship of theirs-- they don’t talk about it. It’s an unspoken understanding between the two of them, and Isaac is fine with that. Really, he is.

Most of the time.

  * **§§§§**



The streets of Beacon Hills are unusually quiet for a Monday evening, the only sound as Scott drives home being the roar of his motorcycle’s engine. The bike had been a reward for himself after getting his Bachelor’s Degree (in Classics and Mythology, because he figured it would be useful) and he’s never once regretted it. It has  _ definitely  _ been an upgrade from the dirt bike he used to cruise around on. 

Scott reaches the apartment he and Danny share just early enough that he’s still got a chance to convince his friend to go out with him for the evening. A small, tiny, minuscule chance, but still a chance.

“Come onnnn, Dannyboy,” Scott pleads, clasping his hands together, “can’t you have some sympathy for your poor werewolf pal? Your, uh, destitute canine buddy? Pleeeeaaase?”

Danny shoots him a look. “Scott, you have a doctorate and ride around on a motorcycle that costs more than I make in a year. Don’t ever call yourself poor again.”

“Uggghhh,” Scott groans, flopping back on the couch he bought at a yard sale for way too cheap. Lydia insists on spreading a towel over it whenever she visits. “Dude, please? I need this. My friend  _ died  _ in a  _ fiery blaze  _ and the funeral is in  _ two days.  _ I need to get blindingly drunk before that happens or I will literally go insane.”

Danny sighs, sitting down on the other end of the couch. Scott pushes himself forward a little to rest his head in his friend’s lap, and Danny starts to run his fingers through his hair absently as he thinks it over. “I have to be at the school for 8AM tomorrow, Scotty.”

“Show a movie! That’s what, like, every teacher ever does when they’re egregiously hungover.” Scott only learned this himself when Danny, who teaches Chemistry at Beacon Hills High, told him, but still. “Oh, you could show Flubber, or something!”

Danny curls up his lip in distaste. “No, I showed that the  _ last _ time you dragged me out on a bender.”

“Hey, you needed that! You went through that breakup, remember?”

Danny looks down at him and rolls his eyes. “Thank you, Scott, for reminding me.”

“Oops. Sorry.” Scott sticks out his bottom lip, pouting. “Seriously, though, can we please? Pleeeeeaaaa-“

“Fine, fine!” Danny groans, getting up off of the couch and leaving Scott’s head to hit the couch cushion with a soft  _ thud.  _ “Go get ready, I’m taking you to Jungle.”

“Yes!” Scott cries, fist-pumping, and, somehow, ends up falling off the couch in his excitement. Jungle is the only decent gay club that doesn’t take a half hour to drive to, and it’s way cooler than any stupid sports bar they could be going to. Unfortunately, Scott’s exuberance has gotten the better of him. He tumbles to the floor with a crash, and Danny looks down at him judgingly as he groans in pain.  _ “Ow!” _

**———**

God, this drink is fucking terrible. It’s a horrific mix of vodka and something that tastes very strongly of the colour blue, and Isaac is starting to regret even coming out tonight in the first place. The club, Jungle, is loud, and overwhelming, and not at all what he’d been expecting.

He was never brave enough to come here as a teenager. He wanted to, wanted to so badly, but he was terrified. He’s trying to face his fears by coming here, but now he just feels himself regressing into his shell-- he’ll probably leave soon.

Back then, even the thought of someone finding out he was gay made him feel like he was locked up in that freezer again, trapped and screaming and unable to escape. He still feels like that, sometimes. Like him coming out would ruin everything he’s worked for-- and who’s to say it won’t? He needs to stay closeted, at the very least for job security. It’s  _ necessary.  _

And yet he still feels a twinge of guilt at the thought of Derek going to the grave without ever truly knowing him-- just like Allison. He chases down the thought with a long sip of his drink, resolving not to think about her for the time being. Some things are just too painful.

He wonders where Derek is now. Above, below, or somewhere else entirely? Isaac has always done his best to avoid asking himself what happens to supernatural creatures after death, but he can’t run away from his own thoughts any longer. Not with Derek pushing up daisies and his entire life going to shit. 

Mom would’ve had an opinion on this. It probably wouldn’t have been an opinion that made him feel comforted in any way, but she would have had something to say all the same. She was heavily, heavily Catholic; the type of woman who collected crosses like baseball cards and had a depiction of Jesus in nearly every room-- painting, statue, embroidery or otherwise. It was an oppressive way to grow up, but Isaac would go through it all again just to see her one last time. People used to say he looked like her; fair-skinned and curly-haired, with eyes the colour of a rainstorm. When she got sick, her complexion dulled and her hair went limp-- but her eyes stayed the same, piercing blue and filled with life.

She had looked so unnatural in her casket. 

Isaac finishes off his drink, grimacing as he hands the empty glass to a nearby employee. He stalks towards the bar with purpose, wiping at his mouth with his sleeve. The vodka was enough to get him buzzing, but the taste it left in his mouth is not desirable in the slightest. 

Upon reaching the counter, a bartender makes his way towards Isaac as fast as he can manage, because this is a gay club and Isaac is, well— okay, he’s confident enough to admit that guys find him hot, even if the thought makes him itchy. He’s going to leave after this drink, probably. Everything is starting to feel a little too  _ much _ right now.

A rum and Coke is thrust into his hands, and subsequently paid for by a twink with a bad haircut on the other end of the bar. Isaac waves an amused thanks, then walks away to go sulk in some dark corner of the club. This is not Paris, and Isaac is not brave enough (or mentally stable enough, for that matter) to let himself be taken home by some dollar store Captain America.

Unfortunately, as he watches the kid wrestle his way through the throng of dancers, Isaac comes to the conclusion that things just aren’t going to work out the way he would like them to. 

“Hi!” Says the twink, chest heaving from forcing himself through the crowd. “I’m Liam!”

Isaac nods in response, taking a sip of his drink. “Thanks for the free alcohol, Liam.”

“You’re welcome!” His cheeks are flushed, his balance is shoddy at best, and it occurs to Isaac that he may get puked on in the very near future. “I’m Liam.”

Isaac snorts, unable to control it. “Yes, you’ve said.”

“Oh, well, you didn’t tell me  _ your  _ name, so I thought maybe--  _ hiccup!--  _ I thought maybe you didn’t hear me.”

Isaac tilts his head, giving Liam an apologetic smile. “I did.”

Liam’s face falls. “Oh.”

“No offence, or anything.”

Though his face is stormy, Liam replies, “None taken. I should’ve known not to, erm, approach when you walked off, but-- Scott! Holy shit, Scott fuckin’ McCall is here!”

_ WHAT? _

  * **§§§§**



This can’t be happening. This cannot be fucking happening. All Scott wanted was a night out to drown his misery in alcohol, was that too much to ask for? 

The whole world seems to slow down as he and Isaac  _ fucking  _ Lahey make eye contact, time turning into a thick jelly. Scott can’t make himself look away, jaw all but on the floor as he gawks at him like an absolute idiot. 

It’s been ten years, but Isaac is still as achingly handsome as the last time they saw each other. If anything, he’s even better-looking, having grown from awkward teenager to  _ man,  _ and a whole lot of man, too. 

That’s irrelevant, though. What’s  _ not  _ irrelevant is that the last time they spoke to each other was a decade ago, and it verged more on a screaming match than a normal conversation. 

Scott swallows, wrought with indecision. Should he go over there? What would he even say? Would Isaac even want to talk to him? 

It seems the choice has been made for him, though, because Isaac is gone just as quickly as he’d appeared, presumably slipping into the shadows to get away from him as fast as he can. Typical.

Scott is still recovering a few moments later when Liam descends upon him like a hawk on a sugar high. He’s vaguely aware that Liam is talking at him, prattling on about one thing or the other, but Scott tunes him out. All he can hear is the  _ lub-dub  _ sound of his heart pounding a mile a minute, and all he can think about is  _ Isaac, Isaac, Isaac. _

**———**

Jesus fucking Christ almighty, Isaac has the worst luck in the entire world. 

In the back of his mind, he had acknowledged that at some point, he would have to see Scott again. Not only was it likely, it was almost certainly going to happen. But he thought he had time to prepare— he thought he would be ready.

Seeing Scott McCall for the first time in ten years when he’s trashed at a gay club is not what Isaac would call  _ ready.  _ Especially not when Scott is sweaty and dressed in a fucking  _ crop top,  _ looking ten times more attractive than he did in high school, and Scott was pretty fucking hot in high school. 

It’s not fair. Not one single, tiniest part of this whole situation is fair. Derek shouldn’t be dead, Isaac shouldn’t be back in Beacon Hills, and Scott fucking McCall shouldn’t be allowed to- well, just to  _ exist,  _ like, in general. He hopes desperately that Scott didn’t see him, that he doesn’t  _ know,  _ but he’s really not that lucky. And considering the way they parted ways, Isaac being a flaming homosexual is likely not news to Scott McCall.

When the taxi drops Isaac off to his house (He’d all but ran away after seeing Scott, tail between his fucking legs), he stumbles up the porch steps, lets himself in, and promptly collapses onto his bed, more corpse than man. He curls up in a little ball, taking up the least amount of space on the bed that he possibly can. He’s always slept this way, ever since he was a child-- almost like if he could squeeze himself small enough, all of the bad things would never be able to find him. 

  * **§§§§**



“Scott? Are you with us?”

Scott shakes himself out of a haze, turning to Peter and attempting to look engaged. The two of them are finalizing plans for the funeral tomorrow while Argent picks out flowers, and Scott is more than a little out of it. He wants so badly to care, wants so badly to feel anything other than the dull ache that has overtaken him, but it’s proving to be on the harder side of impossible. 

“Sorry, Peter. Had a— had a late night.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “Went out partying and got drunk off your ass?”

“Pretty much, yep. And…” He trails off, unsure whether to mention Isaac. He’s all but decided by now that he was hallucinating, so there’s probably no need. Honestly, hallucinations are a thousand times more likely than Isaac actually being here, in the flesh, for the first time in a decade.

“...And?”

Scott shakes his head in reply, looking down at the paperwork in front of him and clearing his throat. “Nothing, nothing. Hey, what picture did we decide on for the service, after? Smile or no smile?”

Peter twists his mouth up, then replies, “Smile; he’d have hated that.”


	2. Chapter 2

_ “I sense that you are very lonely,” the fortune teller says, and Alice seizes up in her chair. “You lost someone. It was your fault, I think. Stubbornness mixed in with a dash of cowardice. Ever since then, you shut others out, even good people, because you are scared the same will happen to them… yes. Very, very lonely.” _

_ Alice swallows, looking away. She’d come to the fortune teller’s tent to investigate, not to get psycho-analyzed. “Well, um…” _

  * **Alice Silver & the Case of the Missing Magician, Isaac A. Lahey.**



**———**

Isaac stands in the very back of the room for the service, watching over the crowd. It’s a nice turnout-- he had no idea Derek knew this many people. Argent sits in the front with Peter, Malia, and Cora, clearly in the row meant for family. Isaac had almost gone up there, too— then re-thought it when he saw Scott & Co. sitting in the row behind them. He’s fine with hiding in the shadows if it means not having to deal with decade-old drama. 

The pallbearers-- Scott, Peter, Argent, and Stiles-- carry out the casket, leading the procession of mourners to the nearby cemetery. Isaac does his best not to be bitter as he brings up the rear. Despite being Derek’s first Beta, despite flying to a different continent for this funeral, despite  _ all of it— _ he wasn’t asked to be a pallbearer. He wasn’t even asked to speak.

Not that he would have known what to say. Isaac has never been good at the whole  _ talking  _ thing-- being locked in a freezer for half of your childhood doesn’t leave much time for learning the joys of public speaking. Maybe it’s better that he wasn’t asked to give a speech; knowing him, he would have fucked it up. For all his grandstanding and charm, on the inside, Isaac is still that quiet, broken kid he claims to have left behind; solitary and angry. He can flirt and joke and tease his way through any situation, except for the ones that matter. 

About halfway through the priest’s final prayer, the skies open up, rain pouring down from the heavens. Safe beneath his umbrella, Isaac thinks of how rain is seen as good luck at weddings, and wonders if it applies to its counterpart. Probably not— the only positive to rain at a funeral is it hides the tears streaming down everyone’s faces. 

Having grown up digging graves in this cemetery, Isaac happens to know a lot about funerals. The muffled wails, shaky priests, and parade of mourners donned in black are staples of how he spent his weekends as a teen. You would think that he’d be used to it at this point, but he’s not. Even after his mother, brother,  _ and  _ father died, Isaac still doesn’t quite know how to handle the dull ache that comes with watching someone you love lowered into the ground, never to be seen again. 

Grief never really goes away— it just changes. Shapes itself into something else until it becomes unrecognizable, and therefore impossible to prepare yourself for. It is the one virus that your body can’t fight against, the one illness for which there is and never will be a cure. There is no instant fix-it for grief. You can put as many Band-Aids as you like over the hole it leaves in your heart, but nothing will ever take away the scar. 

Nothing will ever take away the pain.

Long after the last mourner has left the cemetery, Isaac approaches the fresh grave, toeing the sodden dirt with the tip of his boot. The rain has slowed to a miserable, barely-there drizzle, and so he has no qualms about pulling out a cigarette from the pack in his pocket and lighting up. 

The acrid taste of nicotine consumes and soothes him all at once, like a love bite from a paramour. He can’t remember a time in his adult life when he didn’t have a pack of Lucky Strikes in his pocket, and he supposes his father is to blame for that. The man was a chain smoker like no other. 

Isaac vividly remembers the day he’d packed to go live with Derek in that shitty abandoned subway platform. He had been shoving whatever he could get his hands on into a duffel bag, terrified the cops would show up any second. The bag was stuffed to bursting, and he’d just been about to leave, run away from that place and all its bad memories, when he’d spotted the pack of Lucky Strikes left on the table, the only thing remaining of his father. 

Picking up the habit had been inevitable, but Isaac has never been too worked up about it. He’s a fucking werewolf, it’s not like he’s going to come down with popcorn lung or some shit. 

He’s halfway through a second cigarette when his phone dings with a text from Cora. 

_ where r u _

Isaac rolls his eyes at the improper punctuation. Though they rarely see each other in person, the two of them have been friends since their teens. Her flight got in just yesterday, and the hug they’d shared in the airport had been bone-crushing. 

**I’m still at the cemetery. Was planning on heading to the reception in a little bit. Why?**

_ im trying 2 find scott _

He frowns down at the screen, almost involuntarily. 

**Why the fuck would I know where he was?**

_ bcuz ur obsessed w/ him _

**FUCK OFF.**

His mouth twists violently as he powers off his phone and shoves it in his coat pocket. Cora doesn’t know what the fuck she’s talking about, and he regrets ever telling her about his sexuality, let alone his stupid crush. Isaac is  _ over  _ Scott, okay? He’s  _ been  _ over Scott for years now, and just because they happen to be in the same place again for the first time in a decade does  _ not  _ mean he will regress and start stalking him online again, or worse, actually try to talk to him, like, in person. God, that would be horrible. He’d barely avoided catastrophe at the club the other night, and he is so not looking for a rematch.

Maybe that’s why he’s been standing out here so long, instead of making his way to the reception. If he goes to the reception, he’ll have to face Scott, maybe even have to  _ talk  _ to him, and he can’t handle that. Even after all these years, he still feels guilty for leaving the way he did. Even after all these years, he’s still acutely aware of how right Scott was to call him a coward that terrible night when they’d last spoken to each other. 

Isaac lets his eyes fall closed, trying to quell the nausea that threatens to rise up his throat. He takes another drag from his cigarette, willing himself not to cry. He’s not sure what’s making him feel this way right now, if he’s honest. Maybe it’s Derek, dead in the ground when he’d always felt unkillable. Or maybe it’s Scott, and the memory of that terrible look on his face the night Isaac left Beacon Hills.

Maybe it’s both. 

Isaac hears a noise behind him, the exact kind of  _ crunch  _ that comes from unexpectedly stepping on one of the newly fallen autumn leaves that scatter the ground. He’s got a heavy feeling in his gut as he turns around, somehow already knowing who it is without even looking. He’s not surprised— Scott has always had that kind of effect on him. 

Isaac is surprised, though, by the wave of calm that washes over him as they lock eyes. They stare at each other for what feels like a very long time, neither saying anything. Scott looks exactly the same as he did ten years ago, which would be impossible for anyone other than him. He is not just a man- he is a shiny brass commemoration statue waiting to happen. 

After a long moment of agonizing over the best course of action here, Isaac decides on a small nod of acknowledgement. Scott’s lips quirk up at the corners, and he nods back. It’s such a small thing, and yet Isaac’s palms have become slicked with sweat. 

Scott seems to take this exchange of theirs as incentive, because the next thing he knows they are standing together in front of Derek’s grave, stewing in the heavy silence. He can feel the apprehension in the air, the weight of all the things neither of them ever had the courage to say settling on his shoulders like Atlas holding up the sky. 

After a few moments of standing around awkwardly, Isaac dips his hand into his pocket and comes back out with a pack of cigarettes. He shakes out another one for himself and lights it, sticking it between his lips. He pauses, hesitant, then shakes the pack again, the last cigarette left- the one he always turns upside down for luck every time he opens a new pack- flopping out sadly into his palm. 

He swallows hard, then offers it to Scott, a sad excuse for a peace offering after all these years. Scott takes it without hesitation, keeping steady eye contact as he plucks the lighter from Isaac’s fingers. The brush of skin against skin is, pathetically, enough to send a shiver up his spine. 

They stand together long enough for both cigarettes to have burned down to the filter, at which point they crush the last stubs under their boots in tandem. They look at each other for a long moment, the air once again filled with words unsaid. He’s just opened his mouth to say something, anything, when the rain picks up again, pounding down once more. Isaac can’t decide whether to be grateful or annoyed.

Scott groans, the first noise he’s made this entire time. He looks up at the sky, wrinkling his nose in that way that used to make Isaac’s heart pound when they were young. It doesn’t now, though. Definitely not. 

He clears his throat, and Scott looks over at him, surprised by both the sound and the offer of the umbrella Isaac is holding out, just big enough for them to share. He tries valiantly to remain calm as Scott joins him under the safety of the umbrella, warm and smelling like fresh laundry and cardamom and a little bit like motor oil and- suffice to say, it doesn’t work.

They make the trek to the reception in silence, brushing shoulders and walking in time. They still have a lot to talk about, and the chasm cut between them is so wide and vast that crossing it seems impossible. 

But here, with Scott at his side for the first time in a decade, Isaac feels like he’s starting to bridge the gap. 

  * **§§§§**



The reception passes like a kidney stone the size of a soccer ball. The room is too loud and too quiet all at once, and the snacks fucking suck. He knew he shouldn’t have let Peter be in charge of appetizers; it’s all pretentious and vegan and disgusting.

Isaac, the smarmy bastard, has no such qualms with the food. Scott is, pathetically, watching him from across the room as he and Peter talk animatedly about recipes and techniques and a bunch of other bullshit he doesn’t understand. They had split up upon arrival, still not having said one word to each other, and Scott’s been hiding from him ever since. He can pretend that’s not what’s happening, but it is. 

He hates himself for how calm he’d felt out there with Isaac. Just his presence, strong and sturdy, had settled something in his soul that Scott hadn’t known was bristly and sharp until Isaac came around to fix it. He is both angered and enamoured by it, and then angry that he’s enamoured. He shouldn’t feel this way- he  _ can’t _ feel this way. Isaac already broke his heart once. He can’t let him do it again. 

Scott finds himself thinking back to that terrible night; back to catching Isaac packing his bags, back to that argument so loud and angry that his voice had gone hoarse and stayed that way for days afterwards. If he closes his eyes, he can still hear the rain pounding against the window of the guest room, can still feel his hands clutching at Isaac’s jacket as he had begged him to stay. His hands curl into fists, nails digging into his palms; muscle memory from a long, long time ago. 

His palms feel wet, and when he looks down at them, he realizes that he’s bleeding. He lost control of his claws, and now he’s bleeding. This hasn’t happened to Scott in  _ years. _ What is it, huh? Isaac shows up and all of a sudden, he’s acting like a teenager again? Stupid. 

He looks up, and Isaac is already looking at him from all the way across the room. His cold blue eyes bore right into Scott’s soul, cooling him down and making him feel like he can breathe again.  _ Stupid.  _ Isaac gives him a little nod, barely anything, and, after a moment’s hesitation, Scott nods back.

His heart is racing.  _ Stupid. _


End file.
